In a way, it was always about wish fulfillment. A generation had come of age hearing tales of yore, of times past when boxing mattered—or at least the big fights mattered—when Ali or Leonard or Tyson stepped into the ring and everyone had an opinion, everyone tuned in.
Now, finally, here was a chance to experience it in the present, by design and by default. Floyd Mayweather Jr. versus Manny Pacquiao, and though boxing was all but irrelevant to the mass sports audience, though the ritual was no longer familiar, almost everyone found a way to follow the old script.
Fight people warned that these folks might be setting themselves up for a letdown, that it figured to be a very tough night for Pacquiao—which would have been the case even back in 2008–09, when during a legend-building (and some would suggest suspicious) 12-month stretch, the Pacman knocked out Oscar De La Hoya, Ricky Hatton and Miguel Cotto in succession. In 2015, those were distant memories—Pacquiao hadn’t stopped anyone in more than five years—but the salient points then and now had nothing to do with him. Mayweather was just too good. He is indisputably the greatest fighter of his era, a remarkable specimen whose hand speed, subtle movement, nonpareil skills and genius boxing IQ seem all but undiminished at 38. Barring a lucky punch—and only very occasionally (such as in the Shane Mosley fight) had Mayweather walked into one of those—he’d box rings around Pacquiao while keeping his own safety top of mind. It would be decisive and it would probably be boring. So said the cognoscenti.
But who wanted to hear that? Certainly not a generation pining for its own signature pugilistic moment, joined by those who fondly remembered when. And so the hype began. Ticket and hotel prices spiked to unprecedented levels. Pay-per-view demand went through the roof. In and around the MGM Grand during fight week, it was indeed like the good old days. Thousands paid for the privilege of watching the weigh-in, and as the opening bell sounded, being ringside felt like being at the planet’s epicentre, with the whole world watching.
And, well, it was a dog. Not for one second did it appear that Pacquiao had a chance of winning. He couldn’t reach Mayweather, couldn’t hit him flush when he did, absorbed punch after punch while futilely trying to close the distance, and about halfway through seemed to concede that his position was hopeless. Mayweather could have taken a few chances and knocked him out, but that’s not his style. Instead, he piled up a huge points win, and no one left demanding a rematch.
Pacquiao claimed that a shoulder injury—and the local athletic commission’s unwillingness to allow him a painkilling shot—had hampered his performance. He underwent surgery afterwards, then began planning for one last payday before retiring to a life in Philippine politics. Mayweather beat Andre Berto four months later, then announced his own retirement at 49-0, declining to take one more fight to break Rocky Marciano’s record, though history suggests there might be reason not to take him at his word.
The fight of the century turned out to be a one-off. Boxing immediately went back to where it had been. There are still great fights. There are still great fighters. Mayweather is still historically big. It’s the sport that got small.